Lovers by the Lake Paert Eight

Chapter Eight

Amy pulled her lightweight jacket close around her frail frame. Holding her empty cup out to Paul, she waited for him to refill it with more hot coffee before she continued.

“Paul, you need to know about what Mark went through to understand how it affected my life. I told you about how Mark was sent to Vietnam, but unless you were there, it’s impossible to comprehend the impact it had,” Amy said as preamble to her explanation of the events her husband endured.

One year is not a long time, unless you are in a jungle fighting to survive, living like an animal. Under those conditions, time does not fly. In a war, the passage of time is measured not by days but by body bags. It was the most obvious way to tell the passage of time. Daily, planes departed with flag-draped coffins as other planes arrived with a load of fresh meat to be ground up in the machine of war.

The combat tour in Vietnam was only twelve months long. When Mark arrived, he listened closely to the old soldiers he met as they were departing. They told him it was best not to think about anything except getting through the next day. Mark took their advice and lived each day the same way he marched through the jungle: very carefully, one step at a time.

Mark thought he knew what to expect from all the TV coverage he watched, but he was totally shocked when he was confronted with the reality of war. Nothing could possibly prepare a human being for the sights and sounds everywhere in Vietnam. It was impossible for any normal person to experience the carnage without sustaining deep scars. These scars were not visible, but they were no less crippling.

He was no stranger to drugs, so when the community joints were passed around, he was happy to take a hit or two - when the community joint was passed around. It was just one way to escape and avoid accepting the unacceptable reality of their daily existence. He noticed the guys who refused to smoke were the first to go crazy.

The letters from home were a comfort to him. He tried to reply to each letter, but the war zone made mail delivery a very unpredictable event. He had trouble writing. His talents as a poet and writer failed him. He wanted to let everyone know he was OK, but he could not relate the atrocities he observed.

How could he write home about how he spent a few hours in a break area where his friends were proudly displaying their ear collections? These were just guys like him or his buddies back home. Before they were sent to war, they liked to go on dates, drink beer, go to movies, and all the other things normal people like to do. They were just like him. Now they were eager to display their ear collections and tell the grisly stories of how they cut it off a “gook” they shot. Worst of all, he sat there with eager eyes and listened to their tales of horror.

Mark could not write home about how his platoon marched through a village and burned it to the ground. There was no way he could describe the putrid stench of burned flesh and hair permeating the air. It was something he wished he could forget, but he knew it would haunt his consciousness forever.

The sight of schoolchildren running down a road with globs of burning napalm consuming their young bodies was an image burned into his mind, and it would haunt him till the day he died. Mark saw all of this but knew he could not write about such things in a letter home to me or his parents. He knew this was a burden he must carry deep within and never let anyone know of the pain it brought. I did sense a change in Mark’s letters. It seemed like he was detached, and he never gave any details of what he was doing or anything about friends or comrades.

Mark found shelter from the daily carnage in the friendly joint passed freely around his platoon. Time passed slowly. The only exception was the time to mourn the constantly rising number of his comrades who paid the ultimate price. It seemed the time for mourning passed far too quickly. War left no time to mourn. Mark soon learned that all you could do for the dead was learn from their mistakes. The number of dead offered many lessons, and Mark was a quick learner.

He progressed quickly up the ranks, but that was not hard to do in jungle combat. He was just lucky enough to outlive most of his comrades in arms. If you were a quick learner, you might avoid repeating their mistakes. If you didn’t learn quick, you would return home, like too many, in a flag-draped casket.

The first thing Mark did each morning was darken in a square on his “FIGMO” calendar. Each darkened square brought him closer to the big silver freedom bird waiting to take him home. It seemed all the conversations with his battle buddies centered on catching that great silver bird.

Knowing his tour of duty was nearly up, combined with the gentle buzz provided by whatever was being passed around, kept him going. On the day of his departure, Mark felt a deep pain of regret for leaving his battle buddies behind. The pain was almost the same as when he had to carry a fallen soldier back to the morgue. But the freedom bird was on the runway, and that was one appointment he was not going to miss.

Oh, yeah, one year is not a long time—unless you are pregnant and trying to go to college. Combined, the two activities seemed to make everything harder and more time-consuming than they should. I found a roommate to help me through those trying times, but Beth left to join Jim Jones in the People’s Temple. Now I sought shelter from the very people who proclaimed to be my friends. In the end, I had to swallow my pride and go back home to my parents.

It turned out my misgivings and apprehensions were all unjustified. My parents were happy to have me back home. Mother did scold me, about running off to get married without letting her know until after all was said and done. Then Mom thought back to the days of World War Two. She remembered there were many last-minute marriages. In the end, Mother admitted, she would have acted in a similar manner if confronted with the same situation. No matter how often the phrase “My parents will kill me” is repeated, it never happens. There was never any thought of killing anyone. I soon found out parents are always parents, and mine were more than eager to welcome home the prodigal daughter. Mother was a big help in the final phase of my pregnancy. Mother seemed to delight in the prospect of becoming a grandmother.

I was lost in the turbulence of preparing for the arrival of my baby. The letters to Mark were now full of details of the upcoming event. I did sense a change in Mark’s letters. I had no point of reference, so I chalked his remoteness to the military requirement for security. There were times when I read Mark’s letters and wondered if he was still the same man I married.

The baby was born. Mark became a father by way of the US Postal Service, and my parents were instantly transformed into doting grandparents. After all those long, lonely months, I sent Mark the first photo of little Sally.

With the arrival of my precious baby girl, life changed for everyone in my life. To most people, my life would now seem to be complete, but questions still remained in my mind. At the moment my quest for self was put on hold while I devoted myself to being Sally’s mother.

On the day we drove to Travis Air Force Base to pick up SSG Mark Saxton, I put a pretty pink dress on little Sally Saxton. The flight was scheduled to arrive in Travis AFB. I thought it was a good idea, because I knew how protesters greeted soldiers at San Francisco airport. I could understand them being against the war, but I could not understand why they took their hatred out on the troops.

There were even incidents where protesters spat upon the soldiers as they entered the terminal. Was I the only one who realized the soldiers were just following orders? Some of the protesters used that phrase to point out that that was what the German SS were doing in World War Two, “just following orders.” These points only confused me. I knew Mark did not like war, and he only joined to avoid becoming a draft dodger and thus a criminal all his life.

While we all waited, I stood craning my neck to see out the window. I remember bobbing up and down on my tiptoes, trying to see the plane pulled up to the passenger terminal. Form my vantage point, it was impossible to tell one soldier from the next. They were all wearing their dress uniforms and carrying the same OD green tote bag.

The arrival area was crowded. The entire atmosphere was supercharged with emotion. I was not the only young woman with a child on her arm, waiting for her man to return. I studied their faces. In every face a story was written. All the plots were the same, but individual details made their story personal.

The crowd suddenly shifted in the direction of the big, double glass door. The first of the returning soldiers marched down the corridor, cordoned off by velvet ropes. The somber atmosphere erupted with cheers and shouts of joy.

The military always has some sort of paperwork or military detail to be accomplished. All the returnees were held inside the roped area before being released to unite with their families. Quickly the men assembled in a formation at attention and awaited the order from the NCOIC.

The NCOIC put them at ease and quickly read out each name in an accountability roll call. After the last man responded “Present,” the NCOIC called them to attention and dismissed them. At the command “Dismissed,” the formation gave a thunderous “HUUUURRRRAAAA” that echoed thru the terminal.

Once released, the families surged to greet their returning heroes. Children were hoisted high in the air and spun around. Hugs and kisses were exchanged in blissful abandonment. For the moment, the trials and tribulations of the past year were lost in the thrill of the moment. Mark and I held each other tightly with little Sally pressed between us, tears of joy washing over our faces. Lost in the moment, we kissed and felt the joy of reunification run wild. We were just one family lost in a crowd of many. Each little group of tangled humanity clinging to each other as they frantically tried to grab a remnant of reality. For the moment, no one noticed the changes time had wrought.

Mark slowly pulled out of my crushing hug. He took a deep breath, and looked me in the eye. He told me this was only a redeployment leave. His enlistment was not up for another seven months, and he was on orders to report to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, in just one week.

“The good news is, I am a sergeant, and I can get base housing. You, Sally, and our belongings will be shipped to our new home,” he explained as I looked at him in shocked disbelief.

I just stood there, holding on to his arm, looking at him. My upbringing and Mother’s strict code of a wife’s duties rushed into my mind, and I knew, regardless of what my feelings were, I would follow Mark, just like Mother taught me.

The little family groups were drifting away from the open area. I glanced around, watching the crowd thin out. It was a relief to see none of the soldiers was physically disabled. All had returned home with all of their appendages, eyes, and ears still in place. What no one could see were the invisible scars hidden deep within their souls. I looked around and saw I was not the only wife who received bad news.

Later, I discovered how lucky it was that Mark was a sergeant. Lower-ranking soldiers were not allowed to have their families moved at government expense, and they could not live in base housing. In fact, soldiers under the grade of sergeant E-5, were required to live in troop barracks and had to be in bed at lights-out.

Mark explained it the way it was explained to him by his NCOIC: “If the army wanted young troops to have wives, they would issue them one.”

It turned out; the short redeployment leave was just enough time to get the paperwork completed for the move to Mark’s new assignment. I never knew how the military treated family members, but I quickly learned it involved lots of paperwork.

The fact I had moved back into my parent’s home meant that living space was crowed. The passion of our lust was hard to contain. I felt too embarrassed to engage in any sexual activity when my parents might be able to hear. The few times I felt safe, when my parents were out of the house for the day, were hot, turbulent, lustful explosions. The sex was hot and passionate, but love did not seem to be a part of it. I considered the long separation might be the reason it was more about satisfying lust than expressing love.

After the first week of flaming passions and awkward moments of trying to get to know each other again passed, I began to notice Mark was different. He even looked different, but then, I might not look the same either. Yet, I was sure the change was more than just looks. He seemed more mature, a result of being forced to accept the responsibility, of the men in his squad. But I felt there were more changes than could be seen. Mark no longer was the man I married.

I was more concerned about the distant look in his eyes. At first I discounted it as normal. I was sure if we had not been separated for so long, we would have both changed slowly and not even noticed the subtle differences.

There were other things bothering me. Mark was smoking more marijuana than ever before. When I confronted him, he just exploded in a verbal blast about how it was his life and he would live it as he pleased.

Mark hadn’t been shot or wounded; he had all his appendages, yet I was sure his soul was missing in action. These were wounds the military hospital really was not prepared to treat. The scars were not visible, but their presence soon became obvious. To the casual observer, Mark seemed normal. Everyone who saw us would comment on what a great family we were. But the casual observer did not see what went on behind closed doors. I was concerned about Mark, but the pending move left little time to dwell upon it.

Each day was spent getting things ready for the packers. We received letters from his new unit, and a sponsor was appointed to assist in the move. Those little things made me feel better about the situation. My parents were bravely trying to be supportive, even though it meant sending both their only daughter and only granddaughter away. Father’s military experience helped him understand, and he tried to comfort Mom, reassuring her that we were in good hands.

I had never really been away from home. Sure, I went away to college, but that wasn’t even an hour’s drive from where I lived. Now I was going to fly across the country. Just the thought of the trip made me nervous. I had never flown anywhere before in my entire life. In fact, I only knew three or maybe four people who had flown anywhere. I tried not to think about the move, and to some degree, I succeeded. The reality of the situation exploded on me when the moving van pulled up to the house.

“I need a break. It’s been a long day. Let’s turn in and get some rest. Tomorrow is another day,” Amy suggested.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Paul quickly agreed.

He piled all the firewood on the glowing ambers, leaving only some small twigs to be used in the morning to rekindle the flame.